


Cerebral

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Post-Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-04-11 17:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19114303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "For every thing that makes it easy to let the Hulk free, the process of coming back is that much harder." Bruce struggles to find his way back to himself and Tony offers some help.





	Cerebral

There is something inherently satisfying about being the Hulk. Bruce can feel it all the way down in the fibers of his body, in the pull and stretch of muscle that expands and lengthens every time he sets his rage free to take him over and guide his existence. There is a sense of release that comes with giving in to such a pure emotion, to letting the ache of temper that twinges so sharply at the back of Dr. Banner’s psyche free to roar and break and destroy whatever it desires. There is no fear, as the Hulk; Bruce is scared of many things, of pain and loss and himself, most of all, but the Hulk no more knows how to fear than it knows the meaning of self-restraint. Letting the Hulk go free is gratifying every time, it bears a satisfaction with it that Bruce can feel down in the deepest instinctive parts of himself, those elements of his identity that people learn to hide young, that are tamped down and overridden and masked behind all manner of socially acceptable expression but that remain, still, a remnant of a simple existence when all there was was to hunt or be hunted.

And for every thing that makes it easy to let the Hulk free, the process of coming back is that much harder.

It’s been a long fight, this time. The Hulk has no real sense of time, no concept of the trivialities that restrain the form that is so much physically weaker than he is; there is only the moment, the span of this heartbeat and the accompanying fury that inevitably comes with it to hunch his shoulders and curl his fists and swing his body into what immediate relief violence can provide. Bruce’s own identity is too distant from the present moment for him to lay claim to such considerations as time when his awareness is stretching into the slow-motion length that comes with physical effort; but he can feel it in the weight pressing down on him, in the rising tide of guilt that always follows the Hulk’s release. He has destroyed too much, has damaged people and things that had nothing to do with the enemy they were fighting, and his own awareness is fracturing along the fault lines of judgment and self-loathing. The more time passes the more urgent his return becomes; and the longer the Hulk continues the less Bruce looks forward to his return to himself and to the weight of responsibility the Hulk can shrug off as easily as he disregards physical injury that would be enough to cripple Dr. Banner. Bruce sits in the back of the Hulk’s head, seeing through rage-hazed eyes as the body attached to them moves in accordance with his instinct instead of his intent, and he knows he has to come back, has to wage the war on his own psyche that always comes with regaining his grip on his destructive alter ego.

The Hulk pauses for a moment, breathing hard more with adrenaline than with an actual sense of physical exertion. Bruce can feel the movement as if in his own shoulders, if his own shoulders were ever as enormous and muscular as the green-tinted form the Hulk takes on, can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat going at a rate that would make him dizzy but that the Hulk hardly even notices. There is nothing around them as far as he can see, no sign of the attackers he has been fighting; likely they are gone or fled, Bruce is sure, even if the Hulk remains taut with the anticipation of violence that comes along with the drastically increased strength and resilience this form offers. There is no sign of their allies, either, Bruce notes as the Hulk’s head swings around to glare at their surroundings; another mercy, given how anxious the Hulk presently is for a continuation of the present fight. The way he feels right now Bruce isn’t sure he could regain control except in the panicked need to not outright murder one of the less sturdy Avengers, and that isn’t going to be enough to avoid doing serious harm to Steve or even Thor, however impossibly resilient the latter has demonstrated himself.

“Hey there, big guy.”

The Hulk jerks around, swinging out with a fist to answer the shock of being surprised before Bruce can even attempt to call back the action from the recognition of that voice. He’s flinching at the back of the Hulk’s mind, cringing from the inevitable repercussions of that unthinking blow finding its mark, but his wideswung fist finds no resistance at all, as the speaker ducks under the arc of the blow. Tony shows no particular alarm at nearly having his head knocked off by a Hulk backhand; he just straightens as soon as the possible impact is clear of him to stand with apparent calm well inside the range of the Hulk’s cement-crushing blows.

“Still kind of jumpy, huh?” he says, turning his head to consider the Hulk’s tight-curled fist as he lifts a foil packet from his side so he can reach in with his other hand. His suit is gone, retracted to the simple bracelet he has locked around his wrist; his worn T-shirt is damp along the collar, showing signs of the same sweat that has stuck his dark hair against the back of his neck and to his forehead, but other than this proof of his recent exertion Tony looks as perfectly calm as if he has been strolling through the forest around them instead of facing down dozens of attackers from the weaponized suit that has become recognized as a superhero in its own right. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug as he draws a handful of dried fruit from the bag to toss into his mouth. “Can’t say I blame you. It’s always hard to come down after a fight, like trying to clean up the dishes after a house party when you’ve got the hangover of a lifetime.” He cocks his head to the side and looks up to meet the Hulk’s scowling gaze. “Please tell me you have some experience with that.”

Bruce wants to huff a self-deprecating laugh, maybe shake his head and flicker a smile. But it’s the Hulk who answers, with a growl in the depths of an overlarge chest instead of a laugh and bared teeth in place of the smile Bruce would like to give instead.

Tony heaves a sigh and shakes his head. “We have got to get you out more. I’m not as much for partying since this whole save-the-world thing took off but I’m going to make an exception for you.” He steps in closer than he already is and reaches to touch against the Hulk’s tense bicep. “I’ll call up my private jet, we can take an afternoon and go--” and his fingers brush green-hued skin, and the Hulk jerks around to shove Tony’s arm away with force enough to make Bruce flinch.

“ _No touching_ ,” the Hulk grates out, struggling with the words the way he always seems to have to fight for coherency. “ _Hulk mad._ ”

Tony lifts his free hand up in the air over his shoulder. “Sure, I get it. You’re the angry green giant, you don’t want comfort, I follow.” He takes a half-step back, as if allowing sufficient space between them when he yet remains in what Bruce sees as alarming proximity to the possible range of the Hulk’s tight-squeezed fists and overpowered blows. Tony turns the foil packet over to pour another handful of fruit into his palm and toss them into his mouth, chewing against the mouthful before he speaks. “I just thought Dr. Banner might appreciate some company.”

Bruce’s heart constricts in his chest as tightly as if it’s caught in the grip of the Hulk’s fingers; the Hulk growls again, a warning note this time. “ _No Dr. Banner! Only Hulk._ ”

“Yeah, see, about that though.” Tony tips out the foil packet, gesturing with it as he turns on his heel so he can face Hulk as his gaze flickers over their surroundings, skipping detail to detail in that way he does when he’s pulling together some conclusion from the seemingly random details that fill up all the background hum of life. “I know you think you’re separate, this brilliant doctor with the whole nerdy scientist schtick and a gigantic rage beast with arms to put our favorite Asgardian to shame.” His gaze slides off the shattered trees around them and back to meet the Hulk’s narrowed gaze without any trace of tension in his expression, with none of the tight-held fear Bruce is so used to seeing in the eyes of the rest of the team, even those that draw far nearer to immortality than the brilliant, breakable Tony Stark. “But you’re just you. Whether you’ve got your glasses on or--” with a sweeping gesture of the open foil packet in his hand, “--your strongman suit. You’re still Bruce.” Tony reaches across into the packet to pull free another piece of fruit before he tips it forward towards Hulk. “Have an apricot.”

Bruce can feel tension ripple through the Hulk’s body, a shiver of temper uncoiling down his spine and flexing in his shoulders. This puny human is _taunting_ him, is mocking him, is denying his _existence_ \-- but Tony’s not looking away, not cowering from the growl in the Hulk’s chest or staring into the other’s eyes with the put-upon bravery that is only ever a brittle mask for the gibbering fear the Hulk so regularly faces. Tony’s just watching him, giving Hulk the same level consideration that Bruce has always found such a comfort; as if he truly sees no difference, as if he’s seeing Bruce in the Hulk as clearly as others see only the monster in the man. The Hulk hesitates, his anger losing its grip in the first moment of surprise, and Bruce reaches out immediately to seize control over their shared form. The Hulk tenses, irritation sparking at the sense of lost control, at the feel of his form being pulled from his grip so it can be remade calmer, smaller, _weaker_ ; but Bruce knows what he’s doing, has paid for this experience over long years of painful trial-and-error, and all he really needs is that toehold of momentary distraction. The Hulk’s face shifts, tightening to a grimace of the closest thing to pain he ever feels, and Bruce pushes himself into the space of their shared body, urging his mind to reconnect with the length of his spine and the flicker of electrical signals that control his existence. There’s a moment of disorientation, a dizzying breath when his body feels oversized, gigantic and slow as if he’s trying to steer a ship with the power of his mind alone; then his shoulders flex, his chest constricts, and when a groan of pain spills past tight-set teeth it’s shaped into the sound of Bruce’s voice.

Bruce loses himself for a few minutes while he’s shifting. It’s easy to let the Hulk take over, to let his body swell and expand into the full expression of the emotion he usually keeps under such tight restraint; forcing himself back into the smaller shape of his human body is a painful undertaking, a fight to cut away the greater part of the constant, roiling anger the Hulk feels until he can cram himself back into the narrow confines of shaking shoulders and an aching skull. Bruce fights with himself, dragging apart the Hulk and Dr. Banner piece by component piece; and then it’s done, the brutal surgery of transformation is complete, and he can let his shoulders sag into surrender and gasp a breath into lungs that flex with no more than his own intention.

“Hey.” Bruce opens his eyes and lifts his head to turn his exhausted vision on Tony still standing in front of him. Tony’s watching him with the same unflinching focus he turned on the Hulk; the very corner of his mouth flickers to turn up towards a smile. “Good to see you.” He gestures with the packet he’s still holding out into the space between them. “Fruit.”

Bruce huffs a breath that would be a laugh, if he didn’t feel so much like whimpering in pain. “Yeah,” he says, and lifts his shoulders from their weighed-down slouch so he can reach and take one of the offered apricots. Tony draws the packet back towards himself at once to claim another while Bruce is working through the careful process of chewing with a mouth only very recently returned to a size with which his experience is comfortable. The fruit bursts sweet and sour on his tongue, the flavor overwhelming for the first moment; Bruce imagines he can feel his thoughts livening in answer, as if his neurons are sparking a little faster just for the promise of sugar on his tongue.

Tony jerks his head to the trees around them. “We did good work today,” he says. “I’m thinking about taking a break for myself, getting away from the hustle and bustle of it all for the afternoon. The bad guys of the world aren’t going to attack twice in one hour, after all.”

“I don’t think bad guys care that much about itineraries,” Bruce manages. Tony offers the packet to him again and Bruce accepts another apricot. “The team might need us.”

“They can handle it,” Tony says. “Thor’s here for the rest of the weekend, right? We might as well give him some toy soldiers to knock down or he’s going to think Earth is too boring and take off for another thousand years or something.”

Bruce’s laugh comes out a little closer to normal, this time. “I don’t think he’s here for fighting.”

“Well neither am I,” Tony says. “All work and no play, etcetera.” He ducks his head towards Bruce, presently standing barefoot with no more than a tattered pair of shorts hanging off his hips. “Let’s get you cleaned up and work on giving you that hangover.”

“Tempting,” Bruce manages.

“I know,” Tony says. “I’m a master of seduction. I’m pretty sure one of my degrees is in that, anyway.” He shifts to turn aside and tips his head away to gesture towards the headquarters some half-mile away. “Let’s get going to get you some shoes, Tarzan.” Bruce laughs properly at that in spite of himself, and when Tony glances back to grin at him the expression is bright in his eyes. Tony takes another piece of fruit before offering the packet again, and this time when Bruce reaches for it Tony draw his hold away to give the other the whole bag.

“Good work today,” Tony says, speaking without looking back. “Bruce.” Bruce glances at him sideways but Tony is watching where they’re going, his attention fixed on the ground underfoot. It’s only when Bruce steps forward to fall into step with Tony that Tony reaches to press a hand to his shoulder. His touch is warm at Bruce’s skin, his hold steady, and Bruce finds himself ducking his head to give in to a smile of happiness instead of a scowl of anger.


End file.
